


In Your Shoes

by the_chaotic_panda



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Divorced Pete & Patrick, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Kid Fic, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Smut, Snow, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29542428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_chaotic_panda/pseuds/the_chaotic_panda
Summary: After a painful separation, Pete and Patrick haven’t talked in months. Pete thinks all is lost, until a sudden snowfall forces Patrick to stay the night. Tears, talks, tantrums and tenderness ensue.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 52
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This'll only be a short one (<4 chapters) but I hope it'll be sweet and somewhat comforting in this cold, dark season. 
> 
> Thanks to @snitchesandtalkers for helping me make this nearly readable!

"I'm not staying," is the first thing Patrick says to Pete's face in two months.

He never does. He'd leave the kids at the end of the cul-de-sac if he could. Pete gives him a smile anyway. "Nice to see you. Good weekend?"

"Daddy!" Bella yells, scrambling out of Patrick's car as soon as Patrick's got her belt undone and toddling furiously towards Pete.

"Hello!" Pete grins, crouching down and letting her barrel into him, her puffy coat and cat-shaped mittens cushioning the blow. "Oh, aren't you cosy? Have you been out in the cold?"

"Yes!" She shoves her face against Pete's and her freezing cold nose pokes Pete in the eye. "See!"

"You're  _ freezing _ !" Pete exclaims, carrying her inside and placing her on the doormat. "How are we going to warm you up?"

"Hot choc'ate!" she yells, flopping onto her backside and wrestling with her welly boots.

"Hmm," Pete ponders, stroking his chin. "We could pop you in the microwave?"

"No!" she giggles, "hot choc'ate!"

"What about the oven?"

"Daddy!"

"No? It's nice and warm..."

"Hot choc'ate, daddy!" she insists, hopping back into Pete's arms once she's de-mittened. Her hair crackles with static from her hat.

"Well, if you think that's best," Pete concedes, shifting her to one arm and using the other to prop the door open for Patrick, who’s loading baby stuff onto the doorstep like he's with Amazon. "Honey, there's no rush," he says to the flash of Patrick's forearm as it drops a pack of nappies, "kettle's just boiled, you could warm up for half an hour."

When Patrick stops in front of him, Pete thinks he might, finally, say yes. Instead, he murmurs, "Don't call me honey." He doesn't meet Pete's eyes.

Heat bursts in Pete's face. "Oh," he says. "Sorry. I didn't mean - sorry."

But Patrick's already heaving Bobby's carrier out of his car. The kid is fast asleep, clutching the corner of a blanket in one chubby fist and Bunbun the bunny in the other. Patrick sets him next to the shoe pile and crouches to adjust the zip on his tiny onesie.

"Bye then, Bells," Patrick says as he gets to his feet. For a split second, he's closer than he's been in years; Pete can smell his washing powder, feel the warmth of his foggy breath. When he pecks Bella on the forehead and turns away, Pete feels oddly spurned.

"Drive safe," Pete tries, "they've forecast snow tonight."

Patrick just waves briefly, and Bella waves back. "Bye dada!" she shouts. Usually, they'd see him off, but Pete's fingers are cold and Patrick never looks back.

"We went to the park!" Bella yells in the same second that Bobby wakes up and begins to bawl. Just like that, his four days of silence become a distant memory. "We went  _ really  _ fast on the roun'bout! And I made a picture! Look, daddy! Daddy!"

Daddy can barely hear her over Bobby's screams, so he smiles and nods and hopes she doesn't mind that he's fishing a bunny out of a blanket instead of looking at her wadge of drawings. "'S okay," he tells Bobby, pushing the rabbit into his hand and cuddling him close. "'S alright, love, Bunbun's here."

Once the bright red has faded from Bobby's face, Pete sits them all down on the couch and squints at Bella's drawings. They're in a sleek, black folder, each page carefully placed in a plastic wallet. Patrick's nothing if not diligent.

"'This is dada," she says, pointing at a wiry, scribbled, grey figure. Pete smirks.

"Of course. And is that me?" He points at a brownish circle with a smile that stretches past its cheeks.

"Yep, and that's Bobby." There's a pink blob in the corner. It's not an unrealistic interpretation. Pete's hoping she's an impressionist at heart; finally, a use for his art history degree. That'll show his parents. "And that's our unicorn."

"Ahh," Bobby says, his tiny, sticky hands grabbing for the paper. "Blah."

Before he can decorate Bella's folder with his saliva, Pete takes his tiny fingers and squeezes them tight. Watching his big, blue eyes stare at the colours is a spectacle in itself; parenthood contains a mundane kind of magic, but magic nonetheless. His fluffy head still smells like baby.

"Daddy," Bella prompts, turning the page for him and pointing at a picture of a cow with a sword. "Look."

But Pete's saved from overanalysing his daughter's bovine pirate when the doorbell rings. "One sec, sweets."

Patrick's still outside. His face is red and he's tapping at his phone with shaking fingers. It's started to snow, tiny flakes melting into his hair. "My car won't start," he mumbles, "can I use your Wi-Fi?"

"Sure," Pete says. "I've got jump leads if you need them."

Patrick shakes his head. "It's turning over, it's just not starting." He wipes his phone on his jacket and swears under his breath. Pete blinks at him for a few seconds and tries not to think about the fact that Patrick has deleted everything about their past, right down to the Wi-Fi code.

He looks up when Pete says his name. "Patrick. You can't Google in the snow. Come in, warm up, call a garage."

Even Pete's mule-stubborn nearly-ex-husband can't argue with that, and he drags his impractically smart boots towards the doorstep. Pete decides Patrick's mum probably picked them out for him. There's no way he's suddenly acquired an interest in his outward appearance. "I'm not staying," he says again.

"Dada's here!" Bella crows, thundering past Pete and falling on Patrick's legs. "I showed the picture we doed!"

In the blink of an eye, Patrick's a different man. "Did you?" he grins, his face coming alive and his eyes sparkling. He used to smile at Pete like that. "Which ones?"

Pete shuts the door behind them and watches Patrick pointedly keep his boots on. It's the first time he's been in the house since they fell apart. Pete can't mess this up.

"Come on, Bells, give dada some space," he says lightly, scooping Bella out from under Patrick's feet. Her little hands curl into Pete's shirt.

"Can dada stay for hot choc'ate?" she asks. They both look at Patrick. He hasn't taken off his coat, but he's unzipped it. Pete doesn't think he's seen the shirt with the birds before. It doesn't look like Patrick dug it out of a bargain bucket, either.

Patrick's gaze flickers between them. His eyes seem to freeze over as he looks at Pete; Pete sometimes wishes Patrick wasn't quite so intelligent, so he could pass off the twitch of hatred in Patrick's face as a trick of the light. Pete looks away. "Dada has to call some people about his car," he says finally, shuffling back down the hallway. "Otherwise he's not going to be able to go to work, and we won't be able to buy so many biscuits."

"Oh no!" Bella shouts very close to Pete's ear. "Dada's a dottor."

"A doctor, yes he is," Pete nods, aware of Patrick's figure drifting behind him. Maybe if Patrick sees him as a father, he might miss him as a husband. "He heals people."

"Can I be a dottor?"

"'Course you can, sweets. You'll need to pay attention in school though," Pete tells her, even though the thought of watching another member of his family struggle through medical school makes him want to cry.

"Can dottor's eat hot choc'ate?"

"Ah," Pete says. The kid's got a one-track mind. Pete did promise. "Only if they've got the best daddies in the world." He sets her on the floor, tops up the kettle and searches through the cupboard for the chocolate powder. Right at the back, there's a box of hibiscus tea. It's not Patrick's usual posh stuff - he took that with him - but it was the best Pete could find in Holland & Barrett. It hasn't been opened. "Tea, Patrick?"

"No, thanks," Patrick says. Their kitchen and lounge are one big room; Patrick's pressed himself against the wall furthest from Pete with his phone jammed to his ear. "God. Come  _ on." _

It occurs to Pete that if Patrick can't get his car fixed tonight, he'll have to stay. Pete wonders if he can heal six months' worth of pain in one night. "Not having much luck?"

Patrick shoots him a waspish look. "One won't do it tonight and the other isn't even picking up. I'm gonna call a cab."

Pete frowns, topping up Bella's plastic mug with hot water and stirring quickly. "Cab from here to yours won't be cheap."

"Cheaper than a hotel room."

Guilt curls like a muscle in Pete's gut. The father of his children would rather fork out for a room at the seen-better-days Travelodge than spend any more time in this house. Pete channels his frustration into the swirling pool of beverage in front of him. "What about the snow? You might end up stranded in Kettering. Nobody wants that."

"It won't settle," Patrick says. "Never does."

They both look out of the window. Fat flakes of snow are falling fast; the front lawn already glitters with white. Pete keeps his smug smile between him and his cup of tea.

"I'm gonna try the car again," Patrick says, stalking back down the hall and letting in a flush of freezing air. Surly as he's trying to be, he looks perkier than Pete's seen him in months, maybe even years. He's wearing a  _ pink scarf, _ for Christ's sake. He's not fooling anyone.

Pete tries not to get his hopes up as he listens to the whine of Patrick's car. It's not like one night would change anything. Maybe it's not Pete, anyway; maybe Patrick needs a break and the last thing he wants to do is scrub hot chocolate from his eldest's chin whilst watching Get Squiggling.

But it  _ is _ Pete. It's entirely Pete. He's the reason Bella doesn't live in a house with both her dads, the reason Bobby won't remember ever having two parents at the same time. One day, Pete'll have to explain it to them. He prays they'll understand.

It's dark and grey outside by the time Patrick returns. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is flecked with snow. He'd look gorgeous if it weren't for the steely look in his eyes.

"Did you get anywhere?" Pete asks innocently. It doesn't work. Patrick's jaw tightens.

"Obviously not," he huffs. Bobby's farm animal toy makes a loud, sad mooing sound.

"What're you gonna do?" Pete asks. There's a conspicuously clear space beside him on the sofa. He pretends to brush something off the cushions.

Patrick stares at his phone, then at the snow, then at the collection of expectant people and toys in the lounge. "Um. Maybe someone from work could pick me up."

Pete sits up so fast he nearly spills his tea. "Patrick." He's missed saying it. "Why don't you stay."

"Stay! Stay, dada!" Bella shouts, a brown, frothy moustache decorating her top lip. Pete tousles her hair and stands up, ushering Patrick towards the kitchen.

"Don't let her pressure you," Pete murmurs, waving a hand in Bella's direction. "But - y'know, it's getting late, and tomorrow's Saturday, so..."

Patrick looks down at his wet shoes. "I dunno, Pete."

"Tell you what - stay the night, and tomorrow, if they can't tow you, we'll roll it onto the road and I'll get my car out. You can either take it yourself or I'll drive you home," Pete says plainly. It's reasonable enough. Pete congratulates himself.

"Um," Patrick starts, his eyes darting towards the door as if he's thinking about making a break for it. "I - I don't have any stuff."

Pete breathes a smile. "Don't worry," he says, touching Patrick lightly on the arm. "We've got everything here. Clothes, phone chargers, toothbrushes. Clean sheets in the spare room, too. Way better than Travelodge, I promise."

Patrick lends him a weak smile. "Great.” 

-

Two hours later, and Patrick's finally taken his coat off. Underneath, he's wearing a purplish cardigan and a new watch. He looks younger than Pete's used to; the man in the grey suit who worked late and forgot to sleep seems to have sloped away, along with the bags under Patrick's eyes and the grey tinge to his complexion. Every time he looks at Patrick, he sees something new, something different; his nails are clean, his hair is trimmed, his clothes are ironed. When did Patrick learn how to iron?

There's other things, too. Pete knew he must've developed some degree of parenting skills due to the fact that having stayed with Patrick, both of their children are still alive, but something's different. He's preventing accidents before they happen; he's anticipating needs before they're voiced. He even changes Bobby's nappy without bitching about the mess. If Pete were feeling self-indulgent, he'd say Patrick was showing off.

But Patrick doesn't show off for Pete anymore. He doesn't even give Pete a spin when he appears, post-bedtime, in the soft clothes Pete laid out for him. He looks sad. Pete aches with stale guilt.

"I was gonna order Chinese, if you're up for it," Pete says as Patrick hovers by the door. His heart sinks when Patrick makes a face. He hasn't missed this; the endless worrying about Patrick's health, the nights spent watching him waste away behind his laptop. "C'mon, 'Rick, you've gotta have something."

Patrick frowns, shaking his head. "Oh - no, I just fancied a curry."

"Oh," Pete says, warmth blossoming in his belly. "Great, yeah, even better. Um - sit down, make yourself comfy."

Patrick decidedly does  _ not  _ make himself comfortable; he perches on the edge of their squashiest armchair like he's waiting for a dental appointment. Pete turns up the TV. He knows Patrick. He knows he likes an extra pot of mint raita with his poppadoms, he knows the mushroom rice is his favourite. If they're going to talk, Pete knows he needs to wait for Patrick to relax.

But Patrick's still managing to ooze anxiety even when he's got a samosa in his hand. Maybe this won't be the emotional reunion Pete hoped for; maybe Patrick hates him, plain and simple. Deep down, beneath the excuses, Pete knows he deserves every dirty look.

"How's work going," is Pete's best attempt at conversation. Patrick likes work. Loves it, even. More than his own family. More than Pete.

"I quit," Patrick says simply.

"You fucking  _ what _ ," Pete blurts.

Patrick just shrugs, like it didn't take a decade of work. Like it's not the biggest decision he's ever made. Like Pete didn't spend months begging him to broaden his tunnel-vision. "I moved to St. Mary's instead."

"The small one?" Pete says. "But - you've been at Kettering General for like - like..."

"Eight years," Patrick supplies. "Yeah."

"I mean -  _ why?"  _ Pete asks.

"Less hours."

The laugh Pete lets out is bewildered and a little manic. "But - but," Pete starts, wondering what the hell Patrick’s done with his ex-husband, "I mean, that's amazing. Like, really. Good on you."

The corner of Patrick's mouth twitches. Pete wants to hug him, to tell him how much he appreciates him, how proud he is. But Pete forfeited his hugging rights long ago.

"So - so when did that happen?" Pete asks, draping himself over the arm of the couch in an effort to get closer to Patrick.

"Five months ago," Patrick tells him.

Pete's face falls. "Oh. You didn't tell me."

"Was I obliged to?"

Pete stares. Patrick's barely looking at him, his eyes gazing absently at the TV. "I - I guess not right away, but - we share two kids, so, it'd be nice to be in the loop."

"What does it have to do with the kids?"

"Well, it'd be good to know what's going on in your life sometimes. You don't offer anything and you never give me the chance to ask, so - I dunno," Pete mumbles, slumping into the couch and wondering how he let his hopes climb so high.

Patrick says nothing. Pete's transported back to the nights before they split, Patrick's incorrigible silence. The only saving grace is that he's not hiding behind his laptop anymore.

Pete takes a deep breath. "I just think it would be good for us to talk."

"We have talked," Patrick replies.

"No," Pete huffs, gritting his teeth. Patrick's literally trapped in his house - if he can't get him talking now, he never will. "I mean, properly. About what happened."

"What difference will it make?"

"Look, Patrick. I think we at least need to  _ try  _ to make it look like we get along. You don't have to like me, but - but for the kids' sake, I think we need to be able to hold a conversation. We can't co-parent if you just shut me out."

"We are co-parenting. Just, not together."

"But this could be our chance to -"

"Force me to talk to you?" Patrick snaps. It's the most animated Pete's seen him in months.

"C'mon, 'Rick, I'm really trying here," Pete protests, "We just need to think about what's best for the kids."

"Were you thinking about that when you fucked someone else?"

Pete's retort dies in his mouth. All he can manage is a weak, strangled sound around the lump in his throat.

Patrick stands and makes for the stairs. "Thought not," he mutters on his way out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for returning to this. 
> 
> A bit of a mixed bag, this one -- lemme know who's side you're on! Is Pete completely out of his mind, or is Patrick being unreasonable?

Over the last six months, Pete has come up with a hundred excuses. Some of them are reasonable. Some of them are flimsy. Some of them are hateful. All of them are self-serving. He hasn't quite decided if he's the most despicable man on the planet, or only human.  _ Only human _ is number eleven on the list.

_ It was an accident  _ is number six. Except, some accidents aren't as simple as dropping Patrick's favourite mug or forgetting a date night. Some only turn into accidents from a distance. Up close, it looks a lot like Pete did it on purpose.

Texting back wasn't an accident. Getting drunk wasn't an accident. Neither was leaning in, or reaching out, or kissing back. Pete was lonely. Pete enjoyed it. Reason number one is  _ I wasn't happy. _

Looking back, it seems obvious that Patrick would leave him. The cracks had already begun to show; all Pete had to do was give them a nudge and everything came crashing down. But at the time, it had shocked Pete to his core, that what they had was so fragile, so readily broken over nothing. And it  _ was  _ nothing. What he’d felt for the other guy was  _ nothing _ . He'd give anything for Patrick to fully understand that.

But Patrick didn't try to understand. Patrick left as soon as the words fell out of Pete's mouth. He didn't cry or shout or say anything at all; he just packed a bag and left Pete's life in shreds. Pete thinks of that night often, agonises over the thought that maybe Patrick was waiting for it to happen, that he'd expected this from Pete. That he'd wanted to leave long before Pete wrecked them.

In six months of desperate calls and stunted conversations, Patrick's never asked, never ranted, never commented. Until now.

Pete cries in front of Mock the Week until he starts to get a headache. But even as he snivels his way around the house, tidying and cursing himself and tidying some more, he can't help but feel as if progress has been made. After six months, Patrick finally shouted at him. At last, Pete's got something solid to hold on to.

-

Six hours later, Bella's hand is on his face.

"Daddy," she whispers. "Daddy. Daddy."

Pete squints at her in the dark, and then at the clock. It's 5:13am. He can't believe no-one at the adoption agency thought to warn him about this. He might've reconsidered. "What."

"It's 'nowed!" she squeals, toddling to Pete's window and pulling on his curtains. The world beyond is grey and glittering.

"Sweetie, it's too early to go out," he grunts. "Go back to bed."

"No," she whines, "come  _ on,  _ daddy."

"Bells, please -"

There's a quiet knock on the doorframe, and for a sickening moment, Pete thinks Bobby might've learned to walk, but when he rolls over, he sees Patrick in the doorway. He's already dressed. "Come on, come out of there," Patrick whispers, beckoning Bella away from Pete's bed. "I'll take you out. Let your dad get some sleep."

"Who the hell are you," Pete slurs, blinking at Patrick. "Why you up?"

"I usually run in the mornings," Patrick says, like it's totally natural.

"You what?" Pete groans, but Patrick's already disappeared, pulling Pete's door shut behind him.

Pete rolls over and goes back to sleep.

-

"So - let me get this straight," Pete says as he smears butter over Bella's toast, "you're a morning person now?"

The Patrick Pete married wouldn't dream of surfacing before seven-thirty. When Bobby arrived, he started sleeping with earplugs. Pete remembers seeing him, fast asleep through every feed, every nightmare, every tantrum. Pete remembers  _ loathing  _ him. But, the Patrick Pete's  _ not _ married to is currently shovelling yoghurt into Bobby's mouth, his nose pink with leftover cold from his 5am snowman-building session. Pete can't quite believe he managed eight hours of sleep. His body doesn't know what's hit it.

"I guess," Patrick shrugs.

"New year's health kick?" Pete asks. He doesn't want to fall for a phase.

"Not really," Patrick replies, "started last October. Gives me time for a decent run, and keeps me on the kids' schedule when they're at mine."

"Wow," Pete says. "That's - kind of insane, but hey, I'm not complaining."

Patrick says nothing, but his mouth twitches and last night’s malice is gone from his face. Maybe all is not lost.

An hour later, though, and Patrick's trying to escape again. Pete hears him hissing down the phone in the bathroom in search of rescue, but outside, the snow is a foot deep. Pete can barely see the road. Unless it's to build a husband for the snowman, nobody's going anywhere.

When the bathroom door finally opens, Pete hops towards the kitchen and pretends to tidy. "Any luck?" he calls breezily.

Patrick rounds the corner, shaking his head. He slumps into a chair and stares blankly at his phone, then throws it on the kitchen table. He looks forlorn. It occurs to Pete that maybe, beyond all the stunted conversation, Patrick truly wishes he was anywhere else on the planet.

"They won't come out 'til the snow clears," Patrick says eventually. Pete bites back his  _ I told you so.  _ "I even called the AA, but my car is still registered to this address, and home start isn't included in my subscription plan. Can you believe that? The  _ one  _ thing I forgot to bloody change."

"That's typical," Pete sighs. When he takes a chance and touches Patrick's shoulder, Patrick doesn't flinch away. "But try not to worry. The snow should be gone by Monday, and you can take my car to work."

"Thanks," Patrick says heavily. "It's not that I don't wanna be here, it's just - I dunno."

Pete drags out a chair and sits down at the table. "I do get it, y'know. I know that getting snowed in with your ex-husband is kind of a nightmare scenario."

Patrick laughs weakly, resting his face on his knuckles. "'S not that, it's just - still a bit - a bit -"

A loud  _ thunk  _ sounds from behind the sofa and one of their many children begins to bawl. They're both up and running in under a second, and whatever Patrick was going to say is lost forever.

-

Pete spends most of the day thinking about it. They'd been within touching distance of a conversation. Pete decides that if he's ever going to salvage the last shards of their friendship, he's going to have to drive Patrick to the cliff-edge of emotion, and then shove him off it. It's the only way.

The opportunity arises when Patrick disappears into the laundry room. Pete didn't realise he even knew the room existed, just that a magical fairy cleaned and dried and folded his clothes every two days. When Pete pushes the door open, Patrick's sorting wet clothes into the dryer like he knows what he's doing.

"You're the guest, you don't have to do that," Pete says, "I'm all over it, I swear."

Patrick pushes a button and the dryer begins to hum. "I know. Just making myself useful." He's even remembered that Bobby's soft kitten toy needs to air dry. Pete feels strangely blindsided. He wasn't prepared for this kind of domestic yearning.

He takes a deep breath. "Patrick," he starts, "about last night, I -"

"Don't worry about it," Patrick says, his voice taut. He picks up the laundry basket and holds it in front of his chest like a shield.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry."

"Doesn't matter," Patrick snaps, glaring at the door. Pete positions himself in front of it. Patrick looks away.

"I lied," Pete blurts, "I don't want us to make up 'cause of the kids. I want us to make up because I miss you."

Patrick stays silent. Pete tries to read his expression, but the only subtext seems to be  _ fuck you.  _

"I don't mean, like,  _ be my friend,  _ or forgive me or whatever, I just miss being involved in your life. I miss talking to you."

Pete initially thinks he's voiced his feelings fairly well. He's not putting pressure on Patrick, he's just - trying to get to know him. The new Patrick. The Patrick who gets up at five and does laundry without whining. Patrick's hands shift on the washing basket and his teeth dart over his bottom lip. Maybe he'll cry. Pete hasn't seen him cry in years.

But when Patrick finally turns back to him, his face is incensed. "You miss me?" he says slowly.

The ground beneath Pete’s feet suddenly feels less like floorboards and more like ice. "Um. Yeah?"

"You think," Patrick starts, his voice rising, "that you can wreck my whole life and then say you  _ miss _ me like - like I'm supposed to be  _ grateful?!" _

Pete fights the instinct telling him to back down and sprinkles ethanol on the spark. "You've barely talked to me in months. Of  _ course  _ I miss you. We were married for five years."

"Yeah, and then you fucked that other guy. D'you get that? Do you actually understand what that did to me?"

"Honestly?" Pete says, spreading his hands in front of him, "No. Because you'd fucked off out the door before I'd finished my bloody sentence."

Patrick makes a breathy, disbelieving noise. "Oh, so I should've stayed for the story? The amazing, heroic tale of how you stuck it in someone else?"

"It was like you'd been waiting to do it! You didn't answer your phone for a week, I had to call your brother  _ and  _ your mum to make sure you were still alive!" 

"I needed time to myself! I was already depressed out of my mind and instead of supporting me you just kicked me in the teeth."

"Supporting you?" Pete growls, "What the  _ fuck _ do you think I've been doing all these years? You think the kids look after themselves? You think the house just stays clean of its own accord? You think the meals you never bothered to eat just appeared out of thin air?"

"And screwing someone else was the answer, was it?" Patrick shouts. The laundry basket shakes in his hands; there’s more energy in his slight frame than Pete’s seen since Bobby arrived. 

"I was so lonely, Patrick!" Pete implores, "He spent time with me! He talked to me! He seemed to actually  _ like  _ me! I sure as hell wasn't getting any of that from you!"

"I don't want to know this," Patrick hisses, "I don't care how he made you feel."

"You didn't care about anything!" Pete bellows. "You wouldn't even have  _ noticed _ if I hadn't told you! I could've had affair after affair and all you'd have had to say about it was that I hadn't washed your shirts on time. You were a shit husband, Patrick, and an even shitter father."

Patrick's face is red with fury. There's a vein in his neck that stands out with each pull of his breath and his jaw is set tight. "Well," he grits out, barely controlled, "I can only apologise. It was so wrong of me to make you kiss him. I'm so sorry, Pete, that I put your cock in him. God, I never should've  _ forced  _ you to pump your fucking come into him."

"I didn't do that," Pete says frantically, "you didn't let me explain it to you, you just jumped to conclusions and -"

"What do you think I owe you?" Patrick cuts, articulating his words carefully. Pete knows that voice - this is where Patrick wins. He's always been so much smarter than Pete. "Understanding? Because, I get it, Pete, I really do. You were horny. Your useless husband couldn't get it up. You had to find a replacement."

"You weren't  _ useless, _ " Pete tries, "I made a mistake, I -"

"You made a  _ decision, _ " Patrick corrects. "You decided your cock was more important than your marriage. Than your kids."

"I'm sorry," Pete bleats. "It wasn't like that."

"And now you expect me to be, what? Thankful? For your continued support? For making me wear your clothes and stay in your house and listen to you, talking about  _ missing _ me? I know I made some big fucking mistakes, Pete, but  _ you  _ ruined this marriage. And until you own up to that, I dunno if I can be around you."

He makes for the door. Pete ducks out of the way, watching Patrick's fingers grab the handle like they're choking the life out of it.

"I'm sorry," Pete says again, wiping at his eyes and snotty nose. "I just - I'm sorry I thought we could talk. I was stupid. I know you hate me. You can hate me forever. I'm - I'll work on accepting that."

Patrick lets out a deep, tired breath. Then, he shakes his head. "Pete," he says heavily, "we were together for eight years. I don't hate you. If I did, this would all probably be a lot easier."

Something squeezes in Pete's chest. "What does that mean?"

Patrick bumps his forehead against the door. "God, do I have to spell it out? I'm not over you. 'S typical, isn't it? I can change everything about my life apart from that. So, there you go."

He slinks from the room. Pete presses his sleeves to his eyes and leans against the dryer for support. Patrick still loves him. After everything, Patrick still loves him. Pete's first, soaring thought is that maybe they'll make it after all.

Pete's second thought is more realistic. Clearly, Patrick doesn't  _ want  _ to be in love with Pete. Maybe Pete's constant push for conversation has just made it all much harder than it needs to be. Maybe the kind thing to do is to let Patrick go.

Pete's third thought is that none of it really matters anyway, because it's not his decision. Pete’s heart is firmly Patrick’s hands. If Patrick wants to crush it into mulch, Pete will have to bear it. 

When Pete emerges, Patrick and Bella have disappeared, along with some wellies and woolly hats. Bobby's playing with his own feet on the living room carpet and the smell of shit is drifting through the lounge. Pete sighs. His whole life is one big pooey mess. 

He's barely angry. He's been waiting for a shouting match for six months; now it's happened, he feels sated, somehow. Beneath all the pain, the Patrick he loved is still alive and kicking.

"What am I gonna do about your dad," Pete asks Bobby's newly clean butt. "What am I gonna do? He still likes me, doesn't he? Yes he does. Yes. And I still like him. So where does that leave us?" he coos. "We should probably talk about that? Shouldn't we? Yes we should." He slaps a new nappy into place and scoops Bobby into his arms.

"Bla," Bobby says, stuffing his hand into his mouth.

Pete tends to agree. Maybe they shouldn't talk at all. Maybe he's meddled with Patrick's feelings enough already; maybe he should get his hand out of Patrick's chest. But if it were Pete - and it's  _ not  _ Pete, a fact which Pete keeps forgetting to take into account - he'd want all the information. He'd want to know his love wasn't unrequited. He'd want Patrick to risk humiliation and rejection for the sake of a last shot.

When Patrick and Bella eventually trudge back through the door, Pete grabs Bobby and clutches him to his chest. Patrick can't punch him if he's holding a baby. He pokes his head around the corner and peers at the two of them.

"We did a 'nowball fight!" Bella yells, galloping out of her waterproof onesie and throwing herself at Pete's legs. "I won!"

Patrick doesn't look happy with this outcome. He's got clumps of snow in his hair and the hood of his jacket, and his jeans are soaked through. When he takes his feet out of his wellies, they drip with water.

"Is that why dada's all wet?" Pete asks, watching Patrick squelch down the hall in sodden socks.

"Yes," Bella grins. "And we b'oke ice on the puddles! I need a wee."

"Okay," Pete nods, trying to keep up. "Well done for telling us, sweetheart, that's great, uh..." He looks for somewhere to put the baby.

"I'll take you," Patrick says, waddling across the lounge. "Well done, Bells, let's go for a wee."

They disappear into the bathroom and Pete paces the floor. Pete should tell him. He should say something whilst Patrick's calm, whilst he has space to think about it.  _ By the way, I still have feelings for you, too.  _ That's all he'd have to say. Honest, casual, straightforward. He imagines himself saying it.

But when Patrick emerges from the bathroom, he's shivering on the spot, frail with cold. "All good," he tells Pete, "she did great. No wee anywhere but in the potty."

"Good girl," Pete laughs, tousling her hair as she runs past. When he looks back at Patrick, he's peeling off his jacket with bright red hands. He looks exhausted. Pete can't bring himself to start a long conversation.

"Shower?" he says instead.

Patrick nods, cringeing at his own socks.

"There's towels up there, and use any products you like. Hell, have a bath. My electric razor's in there too, it just plugs into the wall."

"Thanks," Patrick says. When he squelches past, Pete doesn't feel that familiar ebb of hatred. Soon. Soon, he'll tell him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you Thursday!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think these boys need to talk, don't you?

Pete spends the next fifteen minutes weighing Bella down with blankets and listening to the rush of the shower upstairs. From the laundry room, he gathers a selection of warm, dry clothes, including some thick, striped socks and his nicest underwear. He tries not to think about what Patrick will be putting in the underwear. The contents of Patrick's pants aren't Pete's business, no matter how magnificent.

When he hears the water stop, he hovers in front of the bathroom door _.  _ Eventually, he dares himself to knock.

"C'min," Patrick calls. "I'm decent."

By Pete's standards, this is an overstatement. Patrick's got a towel slung around his waist, low enough that Pete can see the dimples at the base of his spine. He's filled out, his shoulders broad with curling muscle and his hips plush. The man who left Pete was skin and bone; his body would be unrecognisable if Pete didn't know every inch of it, from the cloak of freckles over his shoulders to the layer of reddish hair over his chest.

Patrick turns off Pete's razor and in the mirror, waves at him. "What's up?"

"Um," Pete says, swallowing quickly. He looks down at the neat pile of laundry in his arms. "Oh. Fresh set of clothes. D'you want me to take your old stuff?"

"Nah, I'll bung it in there later," Patrick says, shrugging. Pete's mouth fills with saliva as he watches the ripple of Patrick's shoulders. A few, long seconds pass before Pete realises he needs something else to say.

"Um, thanks for taking Bella out," he blurts, trying desperately to keep his gaze on Patrick's face and not his pink, glistening nipples. "She really loves having you around."

Patrick waves a hand. Pete remembers all the things those lovely long fingers could do. "She likes that both of us are here. She gets more attention. It's easier, too, 'cause we get a kid each."

Pete grins breathlessly, sinking against the doorframe in a way he hopes seems casual. "Yeah, but it's nice to see her with you. And - and," Pete carries on, trying to decide how far he can stray towards flirting, "you're great with her. You really stepped up to the plate with the whole parenting thing."

Patrick shakes his head and says something Pete doesn’t hear because he’s too busy staring at Patrick’s body. "You've been working out," is all that Pete's brain can come up with. He gestures vaguely at Patrick's naked torso.

"A bit," Patrick says, as if it's no big deal. He pats his stomach. "I actually eat, now, too."

The trail of hair leading beneath the towel is dark and curled with moisture. Pete tries not to think about what would happen if the fabric were to slip and fall. "Well, you look great," he gulps.

"Thanks," Patrick says neatly, turning back to the mirror and inspecting his chin. The moment is fading away. Pete has to say something before it disappears.

"About earlier. I should've said - I'm not over you either. Just so you know," Pete garbles. "Uh, tell me if there's a hole in those socks, I'll get you some more, I've got loads."

With that, he darts from the room and shuts the bathroom door behind him. He reckons he handled that about as well as expected with the addition of a wet, naked Patrick. He can't quite shake those lovely nipples from his head. He hops back downstairs before he barges back into the bathroom and kisses Patrick right on his stupid, shiny mouth.

The kids make an excellent distraction. Bella has made a model of a dinosaur using only tissues and her own saliva; Pete would be impressed if it weren't for the sea of gunk she's created on the living room carpet. Bobby's due for his afternoon nap and has started crying because of his own tiredness (Pete knows the feeling) and then Bella starts crying too because Pete's not studying her horrifying spit-creature.

Pete's altogether forgotten his confession of love by the time Patrick comes downstairs; he all but throws the baby at his ex-husband and rushes to find tissues that haven't been rendered prehistoric.

It's only once Bella's stopped oozing snot that Pete stops to consider Patrick. He's wearing Pete's clothes - the jumper is tight across his chest and the sweatpants cling to his thighs. Pete tries not to stare. Patrick's arse looks positively edible.

"He's asleep," Patrick says, wandering towards the kitchen. Pete can't quite read him - he could be elated, or he could be furious. Then, he looks Pete right in the eyes. "Tea?"

Pete blinks at him. Tea. The nationwide peace offering. He nods frantically. "Yes. Yeah, that'd be great, thanks."

"Dada!" Bella shouts, convulsing on Pete's lap. "'Wowsen!"

"Frozen," Pete offers, bouncing her on his knee. "Can you say 'fr'?"

"Rows," Bella tries. "Foze. Fozen."

"Nearly there," Pete nods. "Who's the  _ best  _ character in Frozen, then?"

"Sven!" she squeals, putting her hands on top of her head in the shape of antlers. "He's fluffy."

"D'you know," Pete says, stroking his chin, "riding a reindeer is a lot like riding a horse."

Her eyes go wide - she knows exactly what's coming. Pete begins to jiggle his knees up and down beneath her until she jolts side to side and screams with laughter. "Aah! Daddy! No! No! No horseys!"

Pete pouts as he slows his galloping knees. "Wasn't a horse, it was a reindeer."

"No. That's a horsey," she says, crossing her pudgy arms.

"Alright. So...a reindeer would be more like this?" He clomps his feet on the floor and watches Bella burst into a fit of giggles, her little hands holding on for dear life.

"No! No," she says between breathless giggles, collapsing onto Pete's lap. "Daddy. No."

"What's Sven like, then?" Pete asks.

"Like..." she pauses, sticking her finger deep into her nose like she's mining for answers. "Like,  _ whoosh." _

"Whoosh?" Pete says, "whoosh? Ridiculous. When have you ever heard a reindeer make that noise."

"Not the  _ noise _ ," she tuts. "The  _ noise  _ is like,  _ ooo." _

"Are you hearing this?" Pete asks Patrick as a cup of tea lands on the table beside him. "Ooo? She's talking rubbish. Reindeers don't make noise."

"No, no," Patrick says over Bella's eruption of protests. "They honk. Like -  _ hoork.  _ Y'know?  _ Hoork." _

" _ Hoork? _ " Pete exclaims.

" _ Hoork,"  _ Bella repeats, nodding. Pete stares at her in mock horror. " _ Hoork." _

"Okay, stop your honking. I don't believe you or your father."

" _ Hoork,"  _ they both say in unison. Bella giggles and rolls off Pete's lap with all the grace of a sack of flour and eventually rights herself in the centre of the couch, her wispy hair standing on end.

"'Rowsen," she says impatiently, pointing the remote at the TV like it's a magic wand. Patrick reaches to help her press the right buttons. She scoots towards him and flops on his thighs. "Can dada watch too?"

Pete can't remember the last time Patrick sat through an entire film. He'd always have work to do, or people to call. But Patrick's fingers push her hair from her face and pull her closer. "Of course," Patrick smiles. "It's  _ Frozen.  _ I wouldn't miss it for the world."

-

They're not alone until after bedtime. Pete threw some pasta in a bowl for dinner, and Patrick finished his portion around nine minutes ago. Neither of them have said a word.

Nearly fifteen minutes have passed before Patrick opens his mouth. Pete's been tense since storytime; whatever Patrick has to say will shape his future. He's spent the last couple of hours deciding what he might do if Patrick tells him to go fuck himself. The only adequate response he can dream up is 'okay'. 

"Pete," Patrick says, and Pete mutes the telly as if he's involved in a Western showdown with Jeremy Paxman. "I think we need to talk."

The last time Pete heard that phrase, it was coming out of his own mouth, and his world was about to cave in. It still carries the same sense of dread. Whatever happens next, it'll be a long, painful process. He'll have to tell Patrick everything. Reopen old wounds, clean them thoroughly, stitch them back together. And Patrick has to provide the knife. "Okay," he nods. He'll plead guilty. He'll accept the verdict. "What d'you want to talk about?"

At the other end of the couch, Patrick shifts to face him. "Look, I'm not trying to make any decisions," he says slowly, "I just - I thought not knowing would help. And it hasn't. So - I think I need some closure."

"Yeah," Pete croaks. He feels as though he's clutching a hand grenade, and Patrick just pulled the pin. He'll deserve the devastation. "Okay."

"I need to know. Like, everything. Start to finish. And, I'm gonna ask some horrible questions, and I'm probably going to cry, but I need you to tell me the truth. Even if the truth is shit."

Patrick looks as determined as Pete's ever seen him. He nods, reaching for his beer and taking a gulp. "Understood. Um, alright. Well, I think you already know who he was. Bella's swimming instructor." The cliche of it all makes Pete cringe.

"Darren," Patrick supplies.

"Yeah. We've moved groups, now. But, anyway, we'd talk during the lessons and he seemed like an okay guy. And - well, it was fairly obvious he was gay."

"Did you flirt?"

Pete nearly denies it. But he owes Patrick the truth, every detail of it. "Yeah, a little bit. It was just a bit of fun, though, it was nice to, like, feel a little bit young and sexy. Y'know? Like I'd still got it. I had absolutely no intention of fucking him."

Patrick doesn't look convinced. "You still gave him your number, though."

"He gave me his. It was before the summer holidays. He told me to keep in touch. And - we'd got on alright, so I didn't think much of it. It was sort of nice to have made a friend." God, it sounds even more pathetic out loud than it did in his head.

"But you texted back," Patrick says flatly. "So - you knew it was going somewhere."

Pete stares into the golden bubbles of his beer. It never seemed that clear cut - it was just swimming, and then it was just texting, and then it was just kissing. "It was friendly, I swear," he tries, digging into his pocket for his phone. "I took screenshots, look -"

But Patrick waves a hand. "Just tell me what you thought it was."

"Oh. Okay, well, I guess I knew he liked me. And I was - flattered. And, to some extent, it felt sort of - kind of - exciting."

Patrick's face falls. "Exciting," he repeats slowly. "So, you were attracted to him?"

Pete sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. He knows Patrick, knows his insecurities - this is going to hurt him. "Not - not deeply," Pete says, "but - he - he wasn't unattractive."

"I looked him up," Patrick says, picking at his fingernails. "He's gorgeous. And about ten years younger than you."

" _ You're  _ gorgeous," Pete pleads, "and you're five years younger than me. Not that - I don’t have a thing for - oh, sod it, I don’t know. Anyway, it was shallow. Stupid, y'know? Like a celebrity crush. They're nice to look at, but it doesn't go deeper than that."

Patrick shakes his head a little. "But...would you have fucked him if he was ugly?"

Pete's face burns with shame. It's a loaded question - however he answers, Patrick'll hate him for it. "I dunno," Pete says honestly. "I'd like to say it didn't matter, but - would you rather the connection was emotional?"

"I'd  _ rather _ you hadn't fucked him," Patrick snaps, his gaze lighting with fury. Pete hides his eyes.

"God, I know how awful this looks," he mumbles, "but there was no  _ connection.  _ There were no heart-to-hearts, he was just outwardly nice to me. And, yeah, he was - conventionally good-looking. That just seemed to make it less real."

Patrick looks away. "Whatever," he says, taking a gulp of his orange juice as if it's red wine. "Carry on."

"Okay, well, we texted. For a week or so. And he asked me out for a drink. And I said yes. And I knew it was a date, and I knew he probably fancied me, but I said yes anyway. And I've regretted walking out that door ever since," Pete says, as fast as he can. Maybe it'll soften the impact, somehow.

"Then what.” Each twist of the knife just seems to deaden him. 

"He picked me up at the end of the street. We had a few drinks." Pete can't even pretend he was drunk. "And I knew what was going to happen."

"What did you talk about?" Patrick asks.

It catches Pete off-guard. He hasn't rehearsed this part in his head. "I don't really remember," he admits. "He wasn't especially interesting. He liked sport. Played squash, I think. Lives in Rothwell. No pets, no kids. Your average first date small talk."

"But - did he know you were married?" Patrick asks slowly.

Pete looks down at his bare fingers and Patrick reads him like a neon sign.

"You took your ring off," he says, "of course."

"You never wore yours!" Pete replies, shrill and rushing to exonerate himself, "I took mine off long before any of this. Like, a year ago. And you didn't notice."

"I'm a doctor, Pete, I'm not  _ allowed -" _

"Yeah, yeah, they've got bacteria on, whatever, you're  _ allowed  _ a plain wedding band!" Pete exclaims.

Patrick's arms are crossed tight over his chest. "A fucking bit of gold has  _ nothing  _ to do with how much I love you," he spits. "And  _ this  _ has nothing to do with you fucking someone else. Come on, let's get to the gory details."

"Fine," Pete growls. He takes a breath and tries to remember why they're doing this; to soothe the pain. It's not working yet. "Okay. He didn't know I was married. We had a few drinks, and when we got back to his car, he kissed me."

" _ He  _ kissed  _ you _ ? Patrick says sceptically.

"Well - he leaned in and I met him in the middle. It was slow and there was tongue. Then, we got into the back seat of his car and touched each other 'til we came."

Patrick's face is unreadable. There's been tears in his eyes for the last few minutes - he seems to be keeping them there through sheer force of will.

"So, then," Pete coughs after a few moments, "he invited me back to his place. I told him no. After that, it was kind of awkward, but he drove me home. I told him I couldn't see him again, and he seemed disappointed but he didn't ask any questions. I think he probably thought I was a single dad, what with Bella. Anyway, that's it. I never spoke to him again. Some kisses and a handjob. That's all."

There's a long, slack silence. Pete spends most of it trying desperately to achieve telepathy. His words hang in the space between them. Eventually, Patrick removes his hand from his face. "I really thought you fucked him," he mumbles.

Pete lets out the breath he's been holding. "I - I did tell you," he says quietly.

"I know. I didn't believe you." Patrick smiles bitterly.

"Why not," Pete asks, "if I was going to lie, why admit to any of it?"

"I dunno," Patrick shrugs. "Fuck. God, I hate that I'm relieved. It doesn't make it better. You went on a date with him, and not me. You chose him over me. It shouldn't  _ matter  _ that you didn't fuck him, it was still  _ shit." _

"I know," Pete concedes. He's not here to tell Patrick how to feel. "That's just what happened. All of it. I spent the next day working out how the hell to tell you."

"I don't get it," Patrick says suddenly, "how did you expect me to react?"

"I thought you'd hear me out, at least," Pete shrugs.

"Why would I have done that?" Patrick spits, "Like, what did you think was going to happen?"

"I...didn't think we'd break up," Pete bleats. It sounds so stupid out loud. "Clearly I was being naive, but - I felt as if we'd got through worse. I thought you'd kick me out for a while, maybe we'd have some counselling, whatever, but I never expected radio silence."

Patrick shakes his head, his eyes wounded and miserable. "I get it. I get why you did it. I get that I wasn't present and I didn't hear you out. But I'm not sure if you're really considering how it all made me  _ feel _ ."

Pete's mouth flaps. Maybe he isn't. Maybe he's trying to bring logic to an illogical situation. "Well - okay," he starts, "I hear that, but - you'd been vacant for months. You're hard to read, Patrick, you always have been, so when you stopped sharing things with me, I felt like I couldn't get to you. I'm not trying to  _ blame  _ you for what I did, I'm just telling you what I was feeling. And - I think you should do the same. I  _ want  _ to understand. So, tell me how you felt."

Patrick pauses. His teeth clink on the rim of his glass as he considers what to say. Pete's never seen him so openly in pain. He hopes it's worth it.

"I felt stupid," Patrick says eventually, "for letting it happen. I didn't even know Bella took swimming lessons. I felt inadequate. I felt unattractive. I felt like I'd been written out of my own life."

Pete lets the guilt weigh on his shoulders. "I guess I was preoccupied with how to explain it to you. I always thought, if it were me, I'd just  _ have _ to know what happened." 

"It wasn't you though, was it," Patrick huffs. "I feel like everyone has this idea of how they think they'd react. But you don't know 'til you're there, hearing it. And - I dunno, I guess I left so fast out of self-preservation. If I didn't know the details, they couldn't haunt me." 

"And - did they? Haunt you?" 

"God, I don't know. I was in shock. I slept in my car the first night," Patrick says with a sad laugh. "I genuinely just - hated myself." 

"Patrick," Pete sighs, his eyes heating with tears. The man he loved felt like that and Pete barely knew. "Why didn't you talk to me. We used to be so open with each other, why didn't you think I'd understand?" 

Patrick shrugs, swiping a thumb underneath his eye. "I dunno. I just felt like I'd made a fundamental mistake, y'know? I'd spent my whole life wanting that job, and when I finally got it, I just - it wasn't what I thought. I didn't like it. And then I thought that if I was at least  _ good _ at it, I wouldn't have totally failed. So it became like, an obsession. And I felt like I couldn't tell you because you'd put so much stuff on hold just for me, you'd stuck with me through all the shitty placements and exams and whatever, and it'd all been for nothing. I'd let you down." 

"Fuck," Pete breathes, "Patrick, you could never let me down. I really just wanted you around, y'know? I was so worried about you and whenever I tried to talk to you about it, you'd shut me out." 

"I thought you were fine," Patrick says quietly. "You took so well to parenting. I felt like I couldn't contribute much, so I just - threw everything into work. You just - you seemed to be doing so well without me." 

A flash of frustration shoots through Pete's jaw. "I don't think you really understand," Pete grits out, "I  _ have _ to be fine. Our kids' lives kind of depend on it. Giving up isn't an option. This is what really got to me, Patrick; you didn't seem to ever realise what went into parenting. We barely discussed taking on Bobby." 

Patrick blinks at him. "It - it seemed like a no-brainer. We couldn't split Bella up from her brother." 

"No, I know. And I don't regret it," Pete sighs, "but you acted like another kid wasn't a huge deal, and it was, it really was." 

"Yeah," Patrick croaks. He's picking at a loose thread on his pyjamas, wet streaks shining on his face. 

"I'm not trying to make excuses for what I did. I was just so, so stressed. I felt like I couldn't cope with both of them. I used to sit up in the middle of the night and just cry with them." 

"Really?" Patrick asks, his eyes wide and glassy. "I didn't know." 

"You never asked," Pete says heavily. "And to me, it looked like you were out there with your dream job and all the family stuff was just an annoying side-plot." 

"That's not true," Patrick says, his voice cracking. He takes a sharp gulp of air and Pete wonders if he's about to see Patrick sob for the first time in years. 

"I get that now," Pete says gently, "but - at the time, y'know. You're a doctor. You save lives for a living. All I had to do was keep everything running smoothly, and I couldn't even do that. It was as if you resented me. I felt so small around you, sometimes." 

Patrick's hand is clamped over his mouth. When he takes it away, he chokes out a cry and squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm so sorry," he blubs, "I'm so, so sorry."

Pete shifts close enough to rest a hand on his shoulder and Patrick leans towards it, scrubbing at his eyes with the sleeves of his sweater. "Don't," Pete says weakly, "you'll set me off, too." 

"I was so selfish," he whimpers, "I didn't have my priorities right." 

"So was I," Pete says, his thumb tracing the curve of Patrick’s shoulder blade. "I never should've treated you like that. You deserved so much better." 

Patrick shakes his head, sniffing violently. "D'you know what's weird? It's 'cause of that that I'm better now. Like, I didn't even think to get help 'til it happened. I didn't even realise how shit a father I was." 

"I didn't really mean -"

"No, you were right. I was a bad father and a bad husband. Now I'm an alright father and I don't hate myself. So, in a fucking annoying way, it's sort of turned out for the best," he shrugs, still dabbing at his eyes. "Is that crazy?" 

"A bit," Pete says, "it could've happened - better, y'know. We could've made less of a mess. But, God, Patrick, I can't even say how proud I am of you. I didn't even expect you to want to see the kids, let alone look after them by yourself. And the job thing, that's massive." 

"But - is it enough?" Patrick asks, twisting to look at him. 

"What d'you mean?" 

"Have I changed enough? I can't promise I'll always be up at five. Or that I won't get stressed about work. Or even that I'll never shut you out again." 

"No," Pete ponders, "but - things will change. The kids won't always be such a handful. I might start working full time again. I might be the one stressing about work. I dunno, maybe worrying about stuff we can't control isn't that helpful." 

"I guess so,” Patrick says softly. For a few moments, he’s silent, as if recovering, recharging. Pete keeps forgetting he’s been up since five. “God, what a day,” he sighs eventually. “I'm sorry about earlier, by the way. I didn’t know I was so angry.”

"’S good, I think," Pete says, "get it all out in the open.” 

Patrick nods, shutting his eyes and dabbing at his cheeks. Pete aches to hug him, to kiss him until the pain fades away, but he knows Patrick. He’s a thinker; he needs time, space. Pete watches him stir and lets his hand slip from Patrick’s shoulder. Sitting beside him is enough. “How is it only nine,” he laughs weakly. 

“Fancy a scotch?” Pete asks, then grins at Patrick’s frantic nodding. “I think we’ve earned it.”

Pete gets to his feet and staggers towards the drinks cabinet. He feels wrung out, stretched and twisted and drained. But whatever happens next, whatever becomes of them, Pete’s content. For the first time in a long time, the guilt has eased. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your comments last Sunday - I think Pete narrowly won the popular sympathy vote. Has anyone changed their minds? Or do we all think it's probably best if they just bone? See you Sunday!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! Better late than never! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's followed along, I've loved reading the debates, and I've really enjoyed writing this, even if I only finished it at exactly midnight tonight. 
> 
> Enjoy! xx

Nothing happens.

Pete'd be lying if he said he hadn't hoped, maybe, after a glass of scotch and an episode of Derry Girls, Patrick might rest his head on Pete's shoulder and steal a kiss during the ad break. Even as Patrick becomes more horizontal, Pete feels drawn to him; his messy hair and his drooping eyelids just seem to add to his charm. But Patrick remains firmly on the other side of the sofa until he decides it's time for bed, and Pete lets him go with a lazy smile and a sweet "Goodnight". After months of silence, it's more than enough.

As tempting as it is to overthink every detail, Pete's brain switches to power-saving mode as soon as his head hits the pillow. He manages two pages of a book and three refreshes of his Instagram feed and then he's dead to the world, his head empty and his chest full. He gets three hours of rest before Bobby begins to cry.

He's always hated the baby monitor. He props his eyes open and stares into its red, Terminator eye - he looks forward to the day he'll be able to kill it with molten metal. Maybe one day, he'll also stagger across a hallway with no very hard, very pointy toys strewn all over it. Only two decades 'til they're out of the house.

Bobby's pulled himself up in his cot, his tiny mouth a cavernous, screaming hellhole. Pete falls towards him and scoops him up, wincing as he wails directly into Pete's long-suffering eardrum. "C'mere, Bob," he soothes, "'S okay. Daddy's here." Daddy thought they were past this.

He drops into the armchair beside the bed and rocks Bobby in his arms. It's probably the wrong strategy; the books say to leave them crying, to avoid picking them up, but it's twenty past two and Pete's too woozy to remember whatever guilt-inducing article he read last. Poor kid probably heard a noise and panicked.

Pete barely notices Patrick until he's there beside him, perched on the arm of the chair and pressing Bunbun into Bobby's flailing fist. He doesn't say anything when Pete blinks at him, just slides a warm, firm hand to Pete's waist and squeezes his hip. Pete smiles. There's been so many nights he's wished for this. Patrick's finally here.

Bobby's volcanic face has calmed to a grumpy frown, fat tears oozing from his eyes. The silence is blissful; Pete can hear Patrick's steady breathing, feel the warmth of his body. For once, he can relax without the terror of falling asleep. This is what Pete hoped it'd be like. He and Patrick, exhausted parents against the world.

Eventually, Bobby's eyes begin to droop. Pete's not sure how much time has passed, but his head has dropped to Patrick's shoulder. Even through the fog of drowsiness, he feels the kiss Patrick presses to his brow, and figures it probably means something.

He's not sure what until he stands up to lift Bobby into his cot and Patrick moves with him, his hand brushing the small of Pete's back. When Pete slides an arm around his shoulders, he presses close, and together they gaze at sleeping Bobby. He's much cuter when he's not making noise.

"Come to bed with me?" Pete asks quietly.

Patrick blinks at him. "Just to sleep, right?"

Pete huffs a laugh. "God, yeah," he breathes, steering them out onto the landing. "It's two a.m., I'm not superman."

If Pete were closer to consciousness, he'd find it surreal, falling into bed with Patrick. In his current state, it seems pretty normal; Patrick's beside him, Patrick's holding him, and everything is as it should be.

-

When he wakes up, Patrick's gone. Maybe it was all a dream, maybe Patrick's still the other side of Kettering, working himself to death and hating Pete's guts. He sighs into the pillow, then squints at the clock.

It's ten to eight. Pete panics; maybe something's happened to the kids, maybe Bobby didn't wake up, he's heard of babies dying in their sleep, maybe he put Bobby down wrong or he didn't shut the stairgate and there's been a terrible, terrible accident -

"Morning," Patrick whispers, poking his head around the door. He's holding a cup of tea. Pete sits up, rubs his eyes, and makes sure his scrotum isn't on show. "Thought you could use a lie in."

"You're an angel," Pete sighs, taking the mug and breathing in the steam. He's barely exaggerating; Patrick's grin glows, eclipsing the tiredness in his eyes and the ratty Ramones hoodie he's wearing. "Gimme twenty minutes, I'll relieve you of kid duty. Nice top, by the way."

Patrick twirls on the spot. "Thanks. Had to change it 'cause Bella cried when she saw the Misfits one."

Pete snorts into his tea and Patrick sidles towards the door. "Wait," Pete says before he can disappear, "you kissed me?"

Patrick stops and looks at him. "I think I recall."

"On the forehead," Pete clarifies, "but - I dunno, that was sort of cool. And then we cuddled. That was cool, too. Did you, um - did you find it..."

"Cool?" Patrick supplies, raising a smug eyebrow. "Maybe."

"D'you think you'd wanna kiss me on the mouth, like, at some point?"

Patrick does a brilliant, tantilising job of looking coy. "Maybe."

"Great," Pete says, "good. Alright. Looking forward to it."

"So am I," Patrick replies, and then he bites his lip and vanishes. Pete hides his grin in his tea. If he wasn't sure last night, he is now; he wants Patrick back, to have and to hold.

The snow has stuck around. The novelty is wearing off - it's making all outdoor tasks impossible. Pete nearly dies bringing the bins in. But the roads are clearing, a thin layer of grey sludge coating the tarmac. It's definitely driveable. Patrick could leave today. Or, he could stay the night.

Pete's not expecting sex. Definitely not, under no circumstances, should he ask for, hint at or even hope for a naked Patrick on top of him. But he can fantasise. God, he can fantasise. The end of their marriage had been filled with excuses about work, sleep and kids; Pete's starting to see that they were both just scared of disappointing one another. Pete vows that if Patrick does stay the night, he won't be disappointed.

-

"Daddy," Bella says for the hundredth time since they left the house to go on what Patrick referred to as a 'nice family walk'. So far, Bella's whined about being bored, whined about staying in, whined about going out and cried when Bobby got to go in the papoose. Pete doesn't blame her - he'd like to go in the papoose, too.

" _Please_ stop pulling on daddy's arm," Pete implores. If he falls over, he'll maim three-quarters of his family in one hit.

"Come here, Bells, hold my hand," Patrick says, grabbing her tiny arm and yanking her away from Pete. "Look, can you tell me what that is?" He points to a fluffy Labradoodle across the street.

"Doggy!" she shouts, so loud that the owner looks up. Pete mouths an apology.

"Do you know what kind of dog it is?" Patrick asks.

Pete throws him a look. "She's only three."

"A big one!" she shouts gleefully.

"It is a big dog, you're right, and I think it's a Labradoodle," Patrick tells her. "That means it's a cross between a Labrador and a poodle."

"Poo!" she giggles. Pete smirks; Patrick's fairly serious parenting style doesn't often fare well against Bella's nonsense.

"Don't worry," Pete says, patting Patrick's gloved fingers, "my teachable moments usually turn to poo too."

Patrick snorts, shaking his head. "My career in a nutshell."

The park is post-apocalyptic; abandoned snowballs litter the fields and half-melted snowmen haunt the playground. Pete lets Bella tug Patrick towards the slush-covered slide and sits down on the nearest bench, wincing when cold wetness seeps through the seat of his jeans. Roll on summertime.

He lifts Bobby out of the papoose and sits him in his lap, bouncing him around on his knees. He's been grizzly all day, his little face squeezed up in annoyance. "You okay, Bob?" Pete asks, "What's got you down, hmm?"

"Grr," he says, his lips curling. "Gaa."

"D'you need a change?" Pete asks, unzipping Bobby's puffy onesie and sniffing inside. For once, he's clean. If Pete's not mistaken, though, he's warmer than usual. He pushes a hand to Bobby's forehead. He's definitely too warm. Then, Pete sees something pink under Bobby's chin.

It's a rash. It stretches over Bobby's whole chest, red and horrible. Pete descends into panic mode in under a second.

"Patrick!" he yells, heaving Bobby into his arms and hurrying towards the slide, "Patrick!" It's probably nothing. Or, it's scarlet fever. Or meningitis. Or measles. They can all be deadly. _Everything's_ deadly to a tiny baby.

Patrick's knees are soaked through as he stands up from whatever weird snow sculpture he and Bella are making. "You okay?" he asks. "Has something happened?"

"Patrick, he's got a rash," Pete says, "he's got a rash all over his chest. He's got a temperature, too, God, I didn't even notice earlier, I changed his nappy right before we came out, it must've come on really fast!"

Patrick barely reacts. "Let's take a look," he says, gently lifting Bobby's t-shirt and peering at the rash. Pete feels as if he should be more panicked about this. "Okay, come here, Bob."

He scoops Bobby out of Pete's arms and feels his forehead. "You're a bit snotty too, aren't you," Patrick tells the kid. Bobby whimpers, his face scrunched as if he's trying to solve a particularly difficult maths problem. Pete zips up his jacket and strokes his tiny cheek.

"I'm gonna call an ambulance," he blurts, already nearing breaking point and scrabbling for his phone.

"No, you're not," Patrick says, taking a gentle hold of Pete's wrist.

"But, there's definitely one that causes a rash and a temperature! There's one where you have to call an ambulance!"

"We don't need an ambulance," Patrick tells him, "we need to get this little man home and out of the cold. Why don't I take the papoose."

"They can get worse really fast!" Pete says, "And he didn't have that when we left the house!"

"That's okay," Patrick says, holding Bobby in one arm and gesturing to the papoose with the other. They do a strange, awkward dance with Bobby until he's sat, grumpy and confused, against the chest of a different dad. "Babies catch colds more easily, don't you," he coos at Bobby. "And they often get nasty-looking rashes, so there's no need to panic. I'll have a better look once we're home."

"I'm coming too," Pete insists, taking hold of Bobby's tiny mitten. The thought of leaving him right now makes Pete hurt in places he didn't know he had. Paternal instinct is a bitch.

"Alright," Patrick says, and they all look at Bella, covered in snow and oblivious to the crisis. There's no way she's going to make this any easier. "Okay, Bells, I know it's been a short play, but we need to go home now."

Bella looks up from her pile of grey slush. "Aww, why?" she whines.

"Because your brother's not feeling too good," Patrick explains. "And dada needs you to be a really grown up girl and help us get him better."

Bella looks unconvinced. Pete tries to think of something to say that won't end in tears; his or his daughter's. "Come on, now, we have to go," he tries, reaching for the hood of her jacket.

She ducks away from him. "No," she snaps, her face scrunching up. "No." If she screams right now, Pete will scream right back.

But Patrick's hand wraps around Pete's and squeezes gently. "Bella," Patrick says seriously, "this is important. I'm gonna need you to help me make Bobby better. You, and Snowflake, and Flappy Bat."

"And Snail?" she asks.

"Definitely Snail," Patrick nods. "D'you think they'll be able to help?"

"Yeah," Bella says slowly. If she doesn't start moving soon, Pete's going to carry her home, kicking and screaming. But when Patrick reaches out a hand, she takes it. "Can I use my dottor box?"

"Absolutely," Patrick says, "what's your favourite thing in the box?"

"Sefesope," she garbles, getting to her feet and toddling along beside Patrick.

"The stethoscope? Yeah, that's very important," Patrick nods sagely. "Now, tell me about Snail. What's his speciality?"

Bella begins to babble about her toys and Pete hurries after them, dumbstruck. He's still got his phone in his hand; he wants someone to panic with, to cry at. Patrick's far too calm for his liking.

"D'you honestly think it's nothing?" Pete hisses frantically into Patrick's ear. "Or are you just saying that?"

"He's showing all the signs of a cold," Patrick says.

"But he's a baby, how do we _know -"_

"Pete," Patrick says, touching Pete's forearm, "I love him as much as you do. If I thought we needed an ambulance, I would have called one."

"Okay," Pete nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "I just - he's too little to tell us what's wrong."

"I can tell us what's wrong," Patrick says firmly. 

Pete takes a deep breath and believes him.

-

"It's harmless," Patrick concludes once he's completed his examination, on the bathroom floor and surrounded by Bella's cuddly toys. He shows Pete a picture of a similarly scary rash labelled 'roseola'. "It comes with a cold. Looks nasty, but it won't itch or scar."

"Is it normal, though?" Pete asks. He's been pacing the lounge for the past five minutes, worrying himself into a wreckage.

Patrick hitches Bobby higher on his hip and strokes a hand over his fluffy head. "Totally normal. He's got a temperature and a blocked nose, too, so we're gonna keep him cool and give him lots of fluids, aren't we."

"But, lots of things have those symptoms," Pete says, brandishing NHS Online at Patrick.

"Pete, look," Patrick says, beckoning Pete forward. He spreads his fingers over Bobby's chest and presses down gently. "See how it fades with pressure? That's called a blanching rash. A meningitis or measles rash wouldn't do that. And I'm not worried because he's been eating fine and he did a lovely healthy wet poo all over the floor, so he's not dehydrated. Bit of Calpol should make him feel better."

"Okay," Pete nods, the relief slowly taking root. "Alright. So he's gonna be okay?"

"He'll be absolutely fine, won't you Bob?" In Patrick's arms, Bobby sulks, his fists curling in Patrick's shirt. "Yes you will. Tell you what, if you'll have me, I'll stay another night. Keep an eye on him.

"Yes!" Pete blurts, "Stay. Good idea. I want an in-house doctor on hand."

Patrick grins and bumps his shoulder against Pete's. "Honestly. He'll be fine."

Pete shoves the heels of his hands into his eyes and sighs deeply. "Thanks. I'm glad you're here," he says, and he even plucks up the courage to look Patrick in the eyes. Patrick's still got that smile on his face, and Pete wonders, maybe, if he decided to lean in...

"Dada!" Bella says from knee-height, "I maked snail better!" She holds up something fluffy covered in bandages, and as quickly as it arrives, the moment disappears.

-

"Thanks for earlier," Pete says once the house is quiet and he can finally talk about something other than Bella's sick snail. He's decided he's going to try to say _thank you_ more often than _sorry._ "I sort of panicked."

Patrick leans his head back against the cushions and gazes at Pete. He's closer than he was last night, his shoulder within touching distance. They managed to switch their cars around without killing themselves or either of the kids; tomorrow, Patrick will leave for work, and then his car will be fixed, and then he'll go back to living in a different house. This might be the last time in a while that Pete has Patrick to himself. "Don't worry," Patrick says, "it's totally normal to get worked up, especially when they can't actually tell you what's wrong."

"I'm just terrified I'm doing a bad job," Pete admits. "They're already adopted, and they've got two dads, I don't wanna fuck them up any more by being completely incompetent."

Patrick smiles. "Did you know, I couldn't even put Bobby's nappy on right when I first had him on my own. His first two shits went absolutely everywhere."

Pete laughs. "Don't you have three degrees?"

"Yep," Patrick sighs. "So, I'm just saying, it's all a learning curve. It doesn't come naturally, no matter what it says in those books you read."

"I guess so," Pete nods. He should branch out, literature-wise; he can't remember the last time he read a book which didn't contain children. "Sometimes I forget how much I love them, and then something like that happens and it feels like the end of the universe."

Patrick gives him a look of wistful sympathy. "I think I really, really understand that."

As Pete grasps his meaning, something twinges in his chest. "Yeah," he says quietly. "That felt like the end of the universe, too."

They look at each other like they did at 2am that morning; Pete feels a yearning and a guilt that somehow coexist. When Patrick reaches out a hand, Pete takes it like a gift. "What're you thinking about?" Patrick asks.

"I'm thinking...that you're gorgeous," Pete says, "and I'm regretting that I didn't say it enough."

Patrick pulls him closer, until his thigh is sandwiched next to Pete's and Pete can see his light eyelashes. He brushes a stray piece of hair from Pete's face and says, "Enough of that. No more misery. Let's move on."

"Okay," Pete grins, taking Patrick's waist. "I'm up for moving on. I sort of wanna move on all over this couch."

Patrick laughs and Pete's so close that he can hear it, bubbling in his throat and exhaled over Pete's face. Pete bumps their noses and watches the twitch of Patrick's mouth.

"I mean it, though," he whispers, low and breathy, "you're gorgeous. When I saw you in the bathroom, yesterday...God, the things I wanted to do to you. You're fucking sexy, doctor."

"I know," Patrick says slyly.

"Bloody tease," Pete grins, and just as he pushes forward, feels the brush of Patrick's lips for the first time in months, a voice calls from upstairs.

"Dada?" It's Bella. Pete opens his eyes, stares longingly at Patrick's mouth, then squeezes them shut again. "Dadaaaaaaa!"

Pete grabs two handfuls of Patrick's shirt and presses his face to Patrick's chest. "Why did we want them?" he whines, "Why?"

Patrick's fingers pat Pete's hair. "I'll go," he says heavily, "but I expect to pick up _exactly_ where we left off."

"Yes, sir," Pete says with a mock salute. Once Patrick disappears, he falls onto the sofa and catches his breath. It's happening. It's finally happening.

After grabbing a bottle of lube from the highest shelf in the bathroom, he pulls out his phone and checks there's nothing in his teeth, that his hair is looking okay, that there's nothing gross up his nose. Then, he whips his shirt off, props himself into a sexy position and hopes Patrick returns before anything goes _twang._

"She wanted me to check if Snail was better," Patrick says as he shuts the stairgate and hurries across the room.

"And is he?"

"Yep," Patrick says, "only a mild cold."

"So he didn't have any snailments?" Pete says.

Patrick stares at him. "I think we made a good call with the divorce."

Pete laughs and reaches his hands towards Patrick. "No! Look, I'm good to go," he says, gesturing to his naked torso. "I'll make it up to you."

"You'd better," Patrick says, sitting down beside him and letting Pete cup his grumpy face.

Pete intends to. He brushes a feather-light thumb along Patrick's plush bottom lip before leaning in and letting his eyes fall shut. He's wanted this for a long, long time.

It's gentle, at first, fleeting sips at Patrick's mouth as if he's tasting fine wine. Pete wants to explore him, bit by bit, and each kiss gets deeper, more potent. He touches Patrick's cheeks, the shell of his ear, the roots of his hair and the nape of his neck, and lets Patrick do the same, Patrick's hands roaming his chest, clutching at his hips.

He feels a thrill of arousal when he brings his hand to Patrick's crotch; Patrick groans into Pete's mouth, his hips pushing up towards Pete's fingers. Pete decides to tease, grabbing a handful of Patrick's soft thigh and kissing him slow and smooth, but it doesn't last long, because Patrick's hand is at his cock, pulling and squeezing in ways that make Pete's head light and his chest heave.

"I wanna blow you," Pete mumbles against Patrick's mouth, his hand finding the hard length of Patrick's cock. His pyjamas hide nothing, the fabirc pushing straight outwards over his cartoonish erection. Pete hides his grin in Patrick's neck; the thing's like a gearstick, for Christ's sake. Pete grabs it and watches Patrick squirm.

The couch isn't the most romantic place to have sex - it takes a good deal of shifting about to get comfortable between Patrick's legs - but the benefits outweigh the inconvenience. There are two metal gates and a flight of stairs between them and their children. It's the closest to freedom Pete'll get for the next decade. He takes out Patrick's cock and sighs at the sight. "Fuck, I've missed your cock."

"God," Patrick groans, "if you keep saying stuff like that I won't make it to the lube stage."

Pete responds by sticking the tip of Patrick's cock in his mouth and sucking hard. Patrick's hands fly to Pete's hair like he's on a rollercoaster, and Pete shoots him a smug grin. Patrick might have a PhD but Pete can suck cock like no-one else.

The noises he drives out of Patrick are music. Patrick has a way of gazing at him like it's his first blowjob ever, like what Pete's doing is truly mindblowing, and Pete's starting to remember what their marriage was like at its best, the intimacy, the love, the trust. Pete's hands rove over the body he so nearly forgot, the reddish hair coating Patrick's belly, the dimples in his thighs, the stretch marks on his hips. He lets out a yelp when Pete presses cold lube between his cheeks, writhing around Pete's fingers as Pete licks and sucks and squeezes his cock.

"Okay," Patrick gasps, urging Pete backwards, "sit back. Yeah, against the sofa, yeah." Pete does as he's told and suddenly Patrick's in his lap, his thick thighs straddling Pete and his slick cock bouncing. He looks gorgeous, all broad shoulders and pinkish chest.

When Pete tells him so, he just pushes their mouths together, faltering only when he fumbles to line up Pete's cock. As he sinks down on Pete, their lips go slack against each other. Pete won't last; he's spent too long with just his hand and his imagination. He clings onto Patrick for dear life, grabbing handfuls of his arse and dragging nails down his back and kissing, kissing, kissing, his hips twitching up to meet Patrick's body.

Patrick cries out when Pete grabs his cock and begins to jerk it, trapped between their bodies and fit to burst. When he finally loses it, he goes slack in Pete's arms, pressed from thigh to forehead and panting hard. Pete uses his last seconds of energy to fuck up into Patrick once, twice, before he too comes apart, every muscle in his body singing with release.

They keel over together, laying tangled on the couch, and for a few moments, Pete just breathes, his eyes shut and his mind focussed entirely upon Patrick. When he finally feels capable of movement, he leans to press a kiss to Patrick's lips, sweet and soft. Patrick's eyes flutter open and he grins at Pete. "Missed you," he whispers.

"Missed you too," Pete replies. They don't need to say _I love you_ \- it's always been true.

-

The next morning, the snow has disappeared. Pete winces at the bright new world as it filters through the curtains and onto his poor, tired face. He could sleep for a year and still not quite have caught up.

"Morning," Patrick says from somewhere in the darkness. Pete squints around the room until he sees a pale pair of legs pulling some pants on. A work shirt hangs open on Patrick's shoulders. Pete gazes at him appreciatively.

"Don't leave," Pete murmurs, "you can let a couple of people die."

Patrick snorts, slinking towards the bed in his underwear. "That's generally frowned upon, even if your husband is really hot."

Pete croaks a laugh and extends a limp hand towards Patrick. "Gimme a cuddle."

With a sigh, Patrick lifts the covers and slides into bed beside Pete, wrapping his arms around him and giving him a squeeze. Pete sighs, resting his head on Patrick's bare chest. It's exactly what he wanted.

"Mmm," he hums. "That's better."

"Bobby's doing fine," Patrick soothes, stroking gentle fingers through Pete's hair. "Still a bit snotty, but in a much better mood."

"Good," Pete says, closing his eyes. Patrick's lovely and warm.

"I'll pop by after work," he suggests, "I'll bring milk, we're running low."

"Yeah, milk," Pete murmurs absently.

"Maybe on Friday we could go for dinner?"

Pete opens his eyes. It's been a long time since he's had a meal out. "Really?"

"Yeah. A lady at work recommended a babysitter, maybe we could test 'em out."

"Yeah," Pete says emphatically, "yeah, amazing. But I'll only go out with you if you stay one more minute."

Patrick laughs and Pete feels it beneath his cheek. "Okay. One more minute."

Pete closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, soaking in their rare oasis of calm. Patrick was right; no more misery.

This time, when Patrick leaves, Pete knows he's coming back.

_-fin-_


End file.
